


Unto the Breach

by phoenixflight



Series: Marriage of True Minds [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF John, Canon Divergent, Continuation, Crime, Families of Choice, Fix-It, His Last Vow, Kidnapping, Mary is a badass, Moriarty is the best villian ever, Multi, Murder, Polyamory, Pregnancy, Season 3, Spoilers, Threesome, lady assassins, no really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-01-26 20:03:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1700795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixflight/pseuds/phoenixflight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unfinished, and at this point likely to never be finished, sadly, but the beginning of this story was so strong I had to start it.<br/>John, Mary and Sherlock have finally sorted themselves out when the secrets of Mary's past and Moriarty's sudden return upset their delicate balance.<br/>Or, the epic threesome fix-it tackles HLV angst!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome, welcome, gather 'round! If you are new here, you might want to start with the first story, in which our trio navigates the complicated emotional waters of Sherlock's return and John's engagement and their epic love for each other. If you are not new, welcome back!
> 
> So much thanks and love to everyone who commented on the first part and encouraged me to keep writing. I only got this far because of all of you! Also to Lisa who brainstormed with me about the plot for this one. 
> 
> We left our heroes the morning after the wedding. This starts about a month later.

_Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more!_ ~Wm Shakespeare, _Henry V_  
~

Sherlock frowned down at his mobile. 

What was one meant to say? Ah, yes. His fingers flew over the screen. _No murders. Let’s have dinner. SH_

They couldn’t meet at the flat, of course. It would be difficult to spin the charade without being able to invite her home, of course, but perhaps he could play up self-consciousness about the state of the flat. 

His phone pinged with a text response. _Surprised to hear from you. How about Friday?_

 _Perfect. I know a place. SH_  
~

Janine glanced around when she walked into the restaurant and smiled when she saw Sherlock. She was wearing her work clothes, understated but flattering- a woman who valued her professionalism but wasn’t afraid to use her sexual appeal as leverage. However the fact that she hadn’t bothered to change into other clothes for their meeting suggested she wasn’t invested in him as a romantic partner. Less than ideal. 

He rose. “It’s good to see you again, Janine.” 

“Sherlock. I must say it was a surprise hearing from you. To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“Please, have a seat. Would you like a look at the wine list? They have a rather acceptable cabernet sauvignon.” 

Her eyebrows rose fractionally. “Sounds lovely. Come here often?” 

“Occasionally. I once assisted the owner in clearing up an accusation of tax fraud.” It had been dreadfully tedious, but the bistro was the perfect combination of understated and elegant for this sort of endeavor.

“Really. Sounds like quite the story.” 

“Hardly.” Sherlock waved a hand. “But we don’t want to spend the evening talking about me. Tell me, how have you been?” 

“Quite well, thank you.” Sherlock nodded encouragingly. “Just the usual. Work keeps me busy.” 

“Remind me what it is you do.” 

“Oh, I work for Napoleon Media.” She grimaced. “Bit shit, really.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” 

“Yes, well.” She shrugged and picked up a menu. 

Sherlock steepled his fingers, leaning forward. “You wanted to be a journalist but couldn’t afford to get a degree right out of secondary school. You started doing secretarial work to support yourself. When you were offered this job, you had just decided to return to school, but your current position was too lucrative to turn down. You regret the decision now.” 

She blinked at him, and then shook her head. “Bit much for before appetizers, Sherlock.” 

“I apologize.” He sat back. “Let’s eat. Are you ready to order?” Catching the waiter’s eye, he nodded. 

After they had ordered, Sherlock steered the conversation away from her work. It was irrelevant, after all, and there was no point in upsetting her unduly. The intent was to endear her to him. He forced himself to keep his eyes on her, rather than examining the other diners, following the curve of her mouth with his eyes, the flash of cleavage where her collar gapped as she leaned forward. Attraction was conveyed through body language, and it was a simple pattern to emulate. 

Of course, Janine was lovely. His limited sexual contact with Mary had piqued his curiosity. With repeated exposure he had begun to understand John’s attraction to her, but it had more to do with her confidence, perceptiveness, focus, and with the heated way John watched her when they were intimate, than with details of her female anatomy. 

Their entrees arrived, and Sherlock deigned to taste his caponata. Quite competent, if a bit too salty. “How is your cacciatore?”

“Wonderful.” Her expression was strange, a quirk to her lips that he couldn’t identify. 

“You were talking about visiting your mother in Belfast,” Sherlock prompted. 

She put down her fork. “As spectacular as this is to watch, now you should tell me what’s really going on.” 

“What do you mean?” He widened his eyes.

“I mean, that you’ve invited me here and treated me civilly and made small talk like a first date when I know perfectly well that you and John and Mary are together.” Sherlock did not choke on anything, since there was nothing in his mouth, but the air in his throat felt momentarily cottony and coarse. “I would have heard if you’d had a falling out.” 

Probabilities and scenarios were flicking through Sherlock’s mind- an unexpected development. Mary must have told her, but what had she said, and why? He had been under the impression that their arrangement was meant to be a secret. What had he missed? Infuriating. 

A new tactic- not a second deception, she would be expecting it. Perhaps a more direct approach. He leaned forward. 

“Are you aware that your employer, Charles Augustus Magnussen, regularly uses blackmail and extortion to exert power over political players and other people who catch his interest?” 

Janine had been reaching for her wine glass, but her hand still as he spoke, and when he was finished she laced her fingers together and looked at him levelly. There was a long stillness, filled with the chatter of the other diners, and the clatter and sizzle from the kitchen. “Of course I am,” she said softly. 

Sherlock blinked. “Oh. _Oh_ , of course. Stupid of me! Given the delicate nature of his illicit dealings, obviously he would seek similar control over his employees. A safety measure for their discretion. I was wrong. You didn’t take the job because of the salary- What does he have on you, Janine?” 

“Why would I tell you?” 

“Because I can help you!” He gestured with his fork. “Whatever Magnussen’s got on you, I can make it disappear.”

“Can you? You think I wouldn’t have done it ages ago, if it was as simple as burning a few documents?” She shook her head. “It’s not that easy to beat Magnussen. It’s not about papers and records; he’s never going to try to prove anything in court, Sherlock. He’s a news mogul - what he prints is what people believe. All he needs to do is seed a scandal. You should know better than anyone how words can ruin someone.” 

Breathing out, Sherlock put down his fork, so gently it barely clinked on his plate. He folded his hands on top of the table. “So we play his game. You want your big break as a journalist? Print the story of the corrupt media magnate who was the puppeteer behind the politics of Britain. I can uncover the secrets, and you can publish them.”

“He’s brilliant at covering his tracks. I’m not sure there’s anything for you to find.” 

He leveled his gaze at her. “I’m Sherlock Holmes. No one is good enough to hide from me. If you agree to help me, I can tell you everything he doesn’t want the world to know. But I can’t do it alone. Are you willing?” 

For a long moment, she regarded him silently, eyebrows raise. Then she grinned. “I am. But first you have to buy me dessert.”  
~

“Do we have any pineapple?” Mary threw open the fridge door. “Toes, toes, liver, fingers- does Molly know you took all these, Sherlock? More toes, eyeballs, eggs, cheese, oh god, _olives_.” She slammed the fridge door and clapped a hand over her mouth, breathing deeply. Her face was pale. 

Looking up from his microscope, Sherlock frowned. “Nausea is meant to be less severe after the first trimester. Ongoing symptoms can be a sign of complications.” 

Mary took several deep breaths, and let them out slowly. After a moment, she let her hand drop. “I’m barely at fourteen weeks, Sherlock. It’s normal for morning sickness to be ongoing at this point.” 

“It can’t hurt to do more tests.” Sherlock picked up his phone and tapped out a text, fingers flying over the screen. 

“All the blood work came back normal. There’s nothing wrong.”

“A less than reassuring metric, given the incompetence of the medical profession as a whole, and the tendency toward reactive rather than preventative medicine.” 

“You’d better not be texting someone at the lab.” She sat down at the table and rubbed her stomach.

“I’m not.” He frowned at her. “You’re still feeling ill.” 

“I’m hungry, but thinking about food makes me want to hurl. Except pineapple. I don’t even like pineapple. Why am I craving pineapple?”

“When was the last time you checked the baby’s heartbeat?” 

“It’s still too early to hear it. They checked at the doctor’s last week.” 

“You should check again. A heartbeat generally becomes audible between 12 and 16 weeks.” 

“We don’t have a doppler, Sherlock.” There was a conspicuous silence. “Do we? We do, don’t we. When did you get a fetal doppler? Stupid question, as soon as you realized I was pregnant.” 

He huffed out an indignant breath. “I don’t see why my concern for your well being is so irritating to you.” 

She propped her chin on her hands. “If you’re this worried now, I can’t imagine what you’ll be like when the baby gets sick for the first time.” 

Sherlock looked disconcerted. “We will take excellent care of it. There’s no need for it to get sick.” 

“All kids get sick, Sherlock. It’s good for their immune systems.” Reaching out she ran her fingers along his arm, ruffling the fine hairs. “You can’t protect everyone all the time.” 

His brow furrowed. 

Mary breathed out heavily, and leaned forward to rest her forehead on the table. “I’m scared too, Sherlock. I don’t know anything about being a mother, it was never- well, for a long time I thought I would never have a family.”

“I’m not scared,” he scoffed. 

“Of course not. You’re not scared of something that has no formula, no guarantees, no control variables.” She raised her eyebrows. 

“Why are you worried? You’re good with… people.” Sherlock’s mouth pinched in distaste. 

“People? People are easy. What do I know about babies?” Heaving out a heavy breath, she scrubbed her hands over her face and shook her head. “We’ve got time to figure it out. Anyway, John is going to be a good enough parent to make up for both of us.”

Downstairs, the front door clicked. “I’m home!” John called. His footsteps thumped on the stairs. “I stopped by the shops when I got your text. Sherlock, what did you need a pineapple for so badly?”

Glancing at Sherlock, Mary’s lips twitched. She leaned over and pressed a soft kiss against the corner of his mouth. “You’re doing fine.”  
~

The draft of night air through the open window was cool, the first chill of autumn after a baking summer. Sounds of the city drifted in, Car horns, traffic, dogs barking. Somewhere on the block a baby was crying. 

John was reading the Guardian, feet propped up the coffee table, rubbing idly at his wedding band. Sherlock was hunched over his laptop, blue glow illuminating the sharp angles of his face. 

Thumping down the stairs from the bedroom, Mary grabbed her jacket from the back of the couch. “I’m off.” She had a bag slung over her shoulder.

John looked up from his book. “Where to?” 

“I’m going out with Carly. You remember Carly, from the wedding? She was a bridesmaid.”

“Um, yes. Yes, of course. Have a good time.” 

“Don’t consume alcohol,” Sherlock said, not looking up from his laptop. 

Rolling her eyes she leaned down to peck John on the cheek. “What are you two doing tonight?” 

“Case,” Sherlock grunted. 

“Oh good. Try not to get into too much trouble. Greg gets heartburn when you break the law.” 

“We hardly ever break the law,” John sighed, kissing her. “Have fun with Carla.” 

“Carly.” 

“Right.” 

Shaking her head, she slung her bag over her shoulder and thumped down the stairs. John looked at Sherlock. “We have a case?” 

“Yes.” Sitting back, he slammed the laptop shut. “We’re going to conduct a break in. Does the name Charles Augustus Magnussen mean anything to you?”  
~

Sherlock strode down the gleaming white corridor, coat flapping around his legs. Hurrying after him, John tried not to glance around nervously. 

“Manguessen’s office and penthouse occupy the top three floors,” Sherlock was saying in an undertone. They are only accessible by the secure lift, which is controlled by encrypted key-card.” Lifting a hand out of his pocket, he flashed an ID badge at John. 

“Where did you get that?” 

“I lifted it from the guard at the front door. Oh, it’s not encrypted with the proper level of clearance. If I scanned this as it is, it would set off alarms immediately and we would be dragged away by security guards.” 

“Oh, well. Brilliant plan. We get taken to a private room and get our heads kicked in.” 

“Thank you for that color, John. However, if I do this,” He held up his cell phone, and pressed the key tightly against it’s back, “the magnetic strip is corrupted and the card stops working. Common problem. Never keep your credit card in the same pocket as your cell phone.” They came to a halt in front of the lift. “Now what happens if we scan the card?” Before John could respond, he swiped the card. 

“Sherlock!” John hissed, grabbing his wrist. 

“Since the card is corrupted, the system opens a video feed to Magnussen’s private secretary, in order to make an identification.” 

UNABLE TO READ flashed on the screen. And then, CONNECTING CAMERA. 

John tensed, glancing in both directions down the corridor. “I hope you have a plan, Sherlock.” Sherlock grinned. 

The screen went briefly blank and then flickered into focus, showing a woman’s face. 

John blinked. “What- is that-?”

“Hello, Janine,” Sherlock beamed. 

On screen, she glanced around the office behind her, and then nodded. “Come on up.” There was a mechanical whirring, and the light at the top of the lift lit up. The doors slid open with a ping. 

Sherlock stepped in, and cocked his head at John. “Coming?” 

“Magnussen’s receptionist is Janine?” He stepped inside, and the lift lurched under him. 

“Yes, it was quite fortunate meeting her at your wedding. I even had her phone number after that event.” Outside the glass walls of the lift, the city lights flickered and blurred. 

“But- John shook his head. “Never mind.” 

They jolted to a halt and the lift doors slid open with a breathy swoosh. As they stepped out, John squared his shoulders, shifting his center of gravity. The office was artistically dim and quiet, tastefully opulent, but the hairs on the back of John’s neck were rising. “Where’s Janine?” 

The blue glow of the desktop screen lit the office. Stepping around the desk, John drew a sharp breath. “Sherlock!” he hissed. Janine was sprawled on the floor, face down. 

Crouching beside her, John cradled the back of her head gently, feeling tacky wetness on his fingers. “Blow to the head. She’s breathing. Janine? Can you hear me?” 

Sherlock’s jacket rustled as he stepped past John, peering into the next room. “There’s another one.” 

“Do they need help?” 

“Ex-con,” Sherlock murmured. “White supremacist by the tattoo, so who cares? Stay with Janine.”

John looked up. “Sherlock, whoever it is, they’re still here.” 

“So’s Magnussen. His seat’s still warm. He was meant to be out, but he's not.” Sherlock straightened from where he had been bent over the desk. His gaze rose toward the ceiling. “Upstairs.” 

“Sherlock- Sherlock!” But he was already gone, bounding up the stairs two at a time, tread silent on the thick carpet. John swore and crouched down beside Janine again, checking her pulse. 

The penthouse apartment was dark, except for where an open door spilled a slice of light across the carpet at the end of the hall. A man was speaking, low and fast, voice tense, almost tearful. “Don’t, please. Think of your husband. What- what would he say?” Sherlock crept down the hall, feet silent on the carpet. “Your good, honorable, honest husband. What would he think if he saw you now?” Through the crack in the door, he could see Magnussen, kneeling with his hands in the air, a slender figure in black standing over him. There was a distinct click as the figure in black cocked the gun. Magnussen flinched, “ _Nej, nej!_ ” 

Pushing the door open, Sherlock stepped inside. “Whatever Magnussen has against you, killing him is not the solution.” 

The woman in black turned, the barrel of the gun swinging toward him. Sherlock’s eyes widened.

Mary’s grip on the gun was steady, her voice clipped. “Sherlock. Don’t move.”  
~

John was crouched beside Janine, checking her pupils, when he heard the unmistakable harsh cough of a silenced gun.


	2. Chapter 2

John jolted to his feet, hand flying to the small of his back, where his gun would be tucked if it wasn’t in the fucking bedside drawer at home. “Leave the gun,” Sherlock had said. _Goddammit._

On the ground, Janine stirred, groaning. Swearing under his breath, John knelt beside her and checked her pulse again. “Janine, Janine can you hear me? No, don’t try to move. I know it hurts, just lie still. I need you to stay here and be very quiet. This is important Janine. Stay still and breathe deeply. I will be right back.” Her eyelids fluttered and he pressed a hand against her cheek. “Shhh, hang on.” 

Creeping up the stairs, John felt the thunder of his heart shaking his ribcage. Under the buzz of adrenaline, his brain ticked off facts. There was an armed combatant at the top of the stairs, and potentially someone hurt or dead. At least two people, possibly three, one gunshot. John didn’t have his gun or his med kit, but his shirt was clean cotton, could be used as a compress or a bandage. The only exit was behind him, down the stairs. Two other injured people, semiconscious. Private security elsewhere in the building, but no sign of them responding. 

None of that could suppress the nauseous terror of remembering Sherlock silhouetted against the sky, blood on the pavement, a gravestone. John’s pulse roared like whitewater in his ears. 

He rounded the corner at the top of the stairs, and padded down the carpeted corridor. At the end of the hall a door stood open, and two shadows moved across the light. 

Peering around the doorframe, John registered the scene in fragments. A dark spray of blood against the far wall, Magnussen slumped on the ground. Sherlock and a slim figure in black facing each other. Hazy relief and a new jolt of adrenaline swamped John’s brain. The figure- a woman, fair haired, about his height- had the gun aimed at the ground towards Sherlock’s feet. Her posture was defensive, Sherlock’s relaxed.

John took two steps across the room, catching the woman’s wrist as she started to turn, twisting until she gasped. The gun thudded to the floor. Looping his arm around her neck, he yanked back. As she staggered, he kicked her legs out from under her, but she twisted as they fell, getting an elbow in his sternum and then his chin, snapping his head back. They hit the ground with her on top, but John was already rolling, one arm across her throat and the other around her waist. 

She threw back her head, cracking her skull against his teeth. Blood tanged in his mouth. Her black cap slipped, and John got a mouthful of her hair, his nose filling with an overwhelmingly familiar smell. He froze. 

With the sudden slack in his grip, the woman rolled and got her knee against his chest, pressing her forearm against his windpipe. Gasping, John looked up into his wife’s face.

Above them, very far away. Sherlock coughed. “While I’m sure this is compelling foreplay, this is neither the time, nor the place.” Looming over them, he extended a hand. Mary eased off John’s throat and took Sherlock’s hand, letting him help her to her feet. 

On the ground, John wheezed. “Mary. What- what’s-?” 

Mary bent and scooped up the gun. John tensed, but she clicked the safety on and slid it into a holster on her hip. “Sherlock said you two came up the lift, which means you are on the security tapes, and will be prime suspects when Magnussen is found dead.” 

“Jesus Christ.” John sat up. “Someone tell me what’s going on.”

“We will fill you in when we have more time,” Sherlock said. “At the moment, Mary is right.” 

“Mary… who just shot Magnussen,” John said slowly. 

“Yes, do keep up. All things considered, it would have been a very neat resolution to everyone’s problems. Unfortunately, we interrupted Mary’s operation.”

“Fuck. Bloody buggering fuck.” John bent over and put his his hands on his knees. “Operation? Is that what you call it?” 

“Yes, a very competent one at that.” 

“But- how, _why_?” He gestured up and down Mary’s body. “The… spy gear, and the gun. The… murder! I don’t understand.” 

“Of course you don’t, it’s perfectly alright. Don’t worry yourself unduly. I’ve deduced most of it, and I’m sure when we’ve sorted things here, Mary will see fit to explain the rest.” 

John took a deep breath, forcing himself to compartmentalize. _Corpse first, crisis later._ He knelt by Magnussen’s body, checking his pulse by force of habit, although there was a neat dark hole in the center of his forehead. _.22 caliber, short range._ Magnussen’s pale eyes were open, startled by death. Clearing his throat, he clambered to his feet. “Why don’t we have security guards all over us right now?” 

“Look around John,” Sherlock snorted.

“No cameras in his private office,” Mary said tersely. “Too much he didn’t want seen.” 

“Which means,” Sherlock continued, “That if we can get to the video footage of John and I coming into the building before Magnussen’s body is discovered, we can eliminate the only evidence incriminating us. Magnussen kept all his security in-house. In this case, his paranoia will serve us well. The only copy of the recordings should be on hard drives in this building.” 

John folded his arms. “And how do we do that? In case you forgot, our woman on the inside is lying unconscious downstairs, likely concussed. I’m sure she appreciated that, by the way.” 

Mary grimaced, bending over Magnussen’s body. “Knocking her out protected her from implication. I was careful.” She patted down his pockets and straightened, holding up an ID card. “This is how we get the camera footage.” 

“Of course,” Sherlock breathed, swiping it from her fingers. “Excellent! Let’s go.” He swept out of the room in a swirl of dark wool, leaving the two of them alone. 

John could feel the tension in his shoulders as he met Mary’s gaze. Her face looked pale against the black fabric- she always said black wasn’t her color. 

She looked away, empty hands clenching at her sides. “Better go before he leaves us behind.” 

Crossing his arms, John tipped his head at the door behind him. “After you.” 

Everything familiar about her became jarring and unreal in the black body suit. As he followed her down the stairs, John watched the gleam of the gun in it’s holster, bouncing on her hip, and his hands itched for the reassuring weight of his own Sig Sauer. The way she moved, her voice, the color of her hair, all enforced the sense of wrongness. 

Back in the office, Sherlock was examining the papers on Janine’s desk. Shouldering past him, Mary reached under the desk and pulled out a small black bag. She pulled out a tight roll of fabric and when she shook it open John recognized the pastel print of the blouse she had worn when she left the flat that evening, and her plain skirt, both wrapped up around a pair of sensible flats. 

“Clever,” Sherlock murmured. “Of course. Oh Mary, you are a professional. Dressed in business wear you would attract little attention entering or exiting the building, and walking the corridors to your point of entry.” 

Smiling grimly, Mary unbuckled her vest and stripped down to her underwear. Her knickers were familiar, a simple black pair that John had pulled off her dozens of times. If he and Sherlock had stayed in, he might have taken them off her that very night, and never known she had worn them to kill somebody. 

John folded his arms, looking away. “You look happy about this,” he said to Sherlock.

“It’s brilliant John! So much more makes sense now. I can’t believe how much I _missed._ It was masterful.”

“Masterful.” John clenched his teeth. 

The zipper of her skirt hissed as Mary slid it up, the black vest and bodysuit disappeared into the bag, and she slipped into her sensible shoes. Dressed in street clothes, the double image vanished- the assassin was gone, leaving only Mrs Watson. John’s neck crawled. He breathed out heavily. 

Straightening, she rolled her shoulders. “Do you know where the central security operation is?” 

Derailed, Sherlock turned. “Don’t you?” 

“I wasn’t planning on dropping by with donuts and coffee!”

“The computer.” Sweeping over to Janine’s desk, he hit the spacebar viciously. The monitor blazed to life, displaying a password box. Sherlock huffed and tapped out an attempt. The box blinked and the screen didn’t change. 

“Here.” Mary nudged him aside, fingers flying over the keyboard, and hit enter with a _clack_. The desktop bloomed on the screen and she stood back. Sherlock’s mouth pulled down and Mary rolled her eyes. “She’s my best friend, alright? Don’t feel inadequate just because you don’t know her as well as I do.” 

“Touching loyalty between friends,” Sherlock murmured. 

“You can talk,” Mary snapped. 

“Stop,” John barked. He took a deep breath, fingers flexing at his side. “No talking,” he said, forcing his voice into a more level tone. “No arguing, no deducing. I am not having a good night. We are going to go erase the film, go back to Baker Street, and we are not going to discuss _any of this_ until we get there. Now, Sherlock, do you know where we’re going?”

Sherlock stood back from the desk. “Sub basement 3, room A22, Central Security. The lift should take us there.”

“Right. Right.” John squared his shoulders and glanced at the figure of Janine on the floor. “We’ll get this done, get out, and call in a tip to the police.” He stomped over to the lift. 

Sherlock appeared at his shoulder, brandishing Magnussen’s ID card. “You’ll need this.” When he swiped it against the sensor, the lift doors swooshed open, the glow of the interior lights spilling out into the dim office. 

“Let’s go.” John startled at the sound of Mary’s voice so close behind him. Thinking back, his mind threw up a dozen examples of her ability to move silently. How many times had she approached unheard and plucked his newspaper out of his hands, laughing at his expression as she plopped onto his lap? One morning he had burned himself badly when she startled him at the stove cooking breakfast. He swallowed. 

As the lift jolted downward, John kept his gaze firmly fixed on the glass wall. The lights of the city blurred before his eyes. Over the whirr of the mechanism, he could hear the faint rustle of Sherlock’s coat. “CIA?” he murmured. Mary made a noncommittal noise. “Interesting.” 

John crossed his arms and breathed out noisily. The other two fell silent. Nighttime London vanished outside the glass as the lift passed the ground floor and descended into the concrete bowels of the building. 

The corridor of sub basement 3 was bright and sterile. Sherlock set off down it at a brisk pace, John stretching his stride to keep up, Mary following silently. “We are on camera now, aren’t we?” John muttered out of the corner of his mouth. 

“Undoubtedly. However I suspect we look innocuous. Other rooms on subbasement 3 include some media archives- we could very well be innocently investigating some forgotten scandal. Also, the company of a woman and your jumper help us look non-threatening. Next door on our left,” he added slightly more loudly. 

“I see it,” Mary responded.

“What if there’s someone in there watching the camera footage?” John asked. 

They halted in front of the door. “Oh, there’s likely to be.” Sherlock swiped the keycard. “Mary, would you like to do the honors?” The light on the door panel flashed green. 

“What-” John began. 

Mary slipped through the door. There was a thump, a shout, and another heavy thud. John and Sherlock looked at each other. A small smile crossed Sherlock’s face. 

“All clear,” Mary called. 

Pushing open the door Sherlock surveyed the two men on the floor. “Did either of them get a clear look at your face?” 

“Of course not.” 

“Excellent. Now, the computer records.” The room was ringed by screens filled with grainy security footage. On the desk, a newspaper was folded open to the crossword, and coffee cups stood with scummy rings inside them. One screen was streaming a football match. 

“I’ve got it. The ID?” 

Sherlock handed her Magnussen’s card and she bent over the computer console, closing the football match, and pulling up a scrolling entry of code. 

“Don’t look so upset John. Think of this as part of…” he waved a hand, “romantic rediscovery, or some nonsense.” 

John gritted his teeth. “Upset? Do I look upset? You look like it’s bloody Christmas.” 

“Don’t people usually say that marriage is stimulated by learning new things about your partner? Perhaps I’m getting into the spirit of things.” Sherlock’s left hand twitched, thumb brushing his ring finger. 

Bent over the desk, Mary hissed through her teeth. “Fuck!” 

Sherlock whirled. “What’s wrong?” 

“These are backed up remotely. Someone out there already has the footage.” She stood back, mouth a grim slash. “I’ve deleted everything I can access from here.” 

“Backed up?” John snapped. 

“Where are they backed up to?” Sherlock elbowed her aside. 

“I don’t know. There’s just a time stamp and the server name. M27.div1c.” 

Leaning over the screen, Sherlock tapped a few keys. “It’s not in London. Not the security company, then, and not the Yard. Could be Appledore.” 

“Appledore?” John asked. 

“Magnussen’s country estate. Could be one of my brother’s remote networks.” He made a face. 

Mary’s shoulders were tense, face pallid in the blue glow of the screens. “Whoever it is, they have all our faces on camera coming out of that office. When Magnussen’s body is discovered, whoever has that film will be able to connect us to the murder.” 

“It’s not the police. You said it yourself, Magnussen had too much to hide. Normally in an office building like this, tapes would be backed up at the headquarters of the security company, but the IP address of the server doesn’t match. My bet is on Appledore. Magnussen was the kind to keep all his cards under his control. Likely the recordings will be difficult if not impossible to access now that he is dead.” 

“And if you’re wrong?” 

Sherlock made an impatient noise. “Then we reevaluate. It is useless to speculate without conclusive data.”

Mary’s mouth was a flat line. “Remember what happened the last time you were accused of murder?”

John’s fist slammed into the desk, making the keyboard rattle and an empty coffee cup jump. “If there’s nothing more we can do here, let’s get out. We’ll go home, and while we’re waiting for the police to come and drag us away, you two can explain to me what the _hell_ is going on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy moly, I apologize for the delay. Thank you to everyone who commented on the first part- I did enjoy that cliffhanger, but I'm sorry I left you there so long! I didn't realize it took me almost a month to get this measly chapter written. Real life got the better of me for a little while. Next chapter should come much sooner. We are going to be more canon-divergent from here. I hope you all are still along for the ride!   
> Coming up next- feels!


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock threw open the front door of 221 Baker Street. Mrs Hudson poked her head out of her flat. “Don’t you look happy! Did your case go well, then?” She caught sight of the other two behind Sherlock, John’s face thunderous, Mary’s blank. “Oh dear! Should I make some tea?” 

“I think not. The Watsons are about to have a domestic.” Sherlock clapped his hands and bounded up the stairs. 

“Sherlock! You oughtn't look so happy, it’s not right,” she called after him. “Murders are one thing, but your friends fighting-“ She shook her head. “If I find out you had something to do with this, Sherlock…” 

“Don’t worry, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock called. “It’s not about infidelity. Much more interesting than that.”

John gritted his teeth. “I’m sorry we disturbed you.” 

Casting a suspicious frown after Sherlock, she squeezed Mary’s arm in passing. “You just let me know if you need anything, dear. I’m only a shout away.”

Mary gave a small, tired smile. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson.” 

They trudged up the stairs, Mrs Hudson watching them worriedly from the hall. On the landing, John held the door for Mary, and shut it carefully behind them. The soft click resonated through the flat. Turning to Mary, John took a deep breath. “Who are you?” 

She looked at Sherlock. “How much d’you know already?”

John thumped the coffee table. “I’m not interested in Sherlock’s showing off. I want to hear it from you. Who are you?” 

Mary set down her bag and peeled off her jacket. “Let’s sit.” 

Wordlessly, John crossed the room and pulled the wooden chair from the desk, swinging it around to face the two armchairs. Standing back, John tilted his head toward it meaningfully. 

Sinking into the chair, Mary spread her hands in a gesture of innocence. “You know me, John. I’m the same person as I ever was.” 

“No, I don’t know who you are.”

“I’m the woman you married. I’m a nurse, I like cats and soppy poems, I hate detective novels. I can’t cook. I love you. None of that’s changed.” She opened her mouth to say more, but fell silent instead, folding her hands over her stomach. John’s jaw twitched. 

“Alright.” Stumping over to his chair, John sat heavily. “Think of this as story time, then. It’ll be good practice.” His eyes flickered down to her belly. “Tell me what I don’t know.” 

Glancing between them, she was silent for a long moment. Sherlock crossed the room behind her and took a seat in his own chair, legs crossed, hands laced together. She met his gaze for a long moment, and then took a deep breath. “I was an intelligence agent. Or rather, I contracted with the CIA- Sherlock was right. I was an agent at one point, but my skills were better suited to… freelance work.” 

“You were a spy for hire.” John’s voice was flat.

Mary shrugged. “If you want to be crude.”

“So what happened?”

“I…” She hesitated. “I was involved in… I learned something I shouldn’t have. Something dangerous. A business deal went… wrong. The men involved were killed, but… other people, powerful people, they knew I had intel they wanted. I had to disappear.” 

Sherlock leaned forward. “And Magnussen knew your secret.” 

“Magnussen didn’t know my secret, not the important one. No one does. But he knew enough to send me to prison for the rest of my life.”

“So you were just gonna kill him.” John raised his eyebrows. 

“People like Magnussen should be killed. That’s why there are people like me.” 

“Oh good.” John sat back, thumping the arms of the chair. “You were an assassin too?” 

Mary ignored him. “John, in the bathroom, under the sink, there’s a box of tampons. Bring it in here, please.” 

He folded his arms. 

“Please, John?” 

Scowling, he got to his feet and crossed the room, disappearing into the kitchen. Sherlock was frowning. “Unless something is very wrong, you should not be needing menstrual supplies at this time.”

“I’m fine, Sherlock.” The bathroom cabinet slammed. “The baby’s fine.” 

John stomped out of the kitchen. Thrusting the box into Mary’s hands, he sat down heavily in his chair and crossed his arms. “Well?”

Mary opened the flaps of the box, and upended it on her lap. A dozen wrapped tampons and a memory stick fell out. 

“Ah,” Sherlock breathed. “Clever. A hiding place out of the way while simultaneously being utterly innocuous should it be seen. Not only that, but there is a probability that whoever came looking for it would be a man. They would be less likely to look closely at a woman’s menstrual supplies, due to inherent discomfort and cultural conditioning.” 

“I’m glad you’re so impressed,” John said sourly. “What is it, then?”

“This is the secret.” Flipping it between her fingers, Mary said, “On this, there’s information about my last mission. The one that… went wrong. It will tell you more about who I was. Who I am. And why I did some of the things I did. But it’s very important that this never fall into the wrong hands- anybody’s hands, really.” She held it out toward John. 

He took it from her slowly. “Why are you giving this to me?” 

“Because I trust you, and because you deserve to know. You’re a good man, John. The good man I married.” Her voice caught.

“A good man.” John nodded, jaw tight. His fingers trembled on his knee.”That’s what I am to the two of you.” He clenched his jaw. “Why is everyone I love a psychopath?” 

Sherlock made a disgruntled noise. “High functioning sociopath.” 

“Shut up.” Pushing himself to his feet, John paced across the carpet. “Just shut up, Sherlock. You don’t even see what the problem is. You’re fucking delighted. You don’t think there’s anything wrong with the fact that my wife, the mother of my child, has been lying to me from the day we met.” He shook his head. “How could I not see that? How could I miss that?” 

“John-” Sherlock got to his feet. “You did see it. You are unusually attracted to dangerous situations and people. No one else would have put up with me as long as you have. You noticed a dozen things I missed about Mary- clues to her identity, a sense of danger. That’s what attracted you to her.” 

“He’s right.” Mary made a weak attempt at a smile. “I did say you had a type.”

Not looking at her, John lowered his voice. His hands were trembling.   
“But she wasn’t supposed to be like that. Why is she like that?” Behind them, Mary looked down at her hands.

“Because you chose her, John. Because you fell in love with her.” 

John breathed in, chest inflating. “Why… is everything… alway MY FAULT?” he roared. 

Sherlock flinched and Mary closed her eyes. John’s shoulders heaved, looking between them in the heavy silence. 

Nodding to himself, John flexed his fingers and turned toward the door. “I’m going out.” 

“John-“ Mary began, lurching to her feet. 

“Don’t wait up,” he shouted over his shoulder. 

The slam of the door resounded through the flat, echoed by the thudding of his stomping down the stairs. Faint music was playing down the block. Somewhere in the city, a siren wailed. 

Mary heaved out a sigh, and looked over at Sherlock, who was sprawled in his chair. “You’re taking this very well.” 

“It’s remarkable.” 

“Really?” Her eyebrows rose.

“Yes. So many little clues, and yet I failed to see the whole.” He bounded to his feet, and circled her, brushing his fingers down her arm, over the small of her back. “Mary, Mary. An assumed name, I suppose? Not just the name, the whole identity. You take pride in your skills.” His fingers trailed around the open collar of her blouse, brushing over her clavicle. “Whatever made you give up your career, it wasn’t small.” 

“No, it wasn’t,” she agreed, tilting her head as his hand skimmed over her cheek. 

“A mission that went wrong,” Sherlock mused. “How does a spy’s mission go wrong? Either you are discovered, or you discover something better left alone. What did you discover?”

“I bet you can convince John to tell you, if he looks at the flash drive.” 

“Mm, were’s the challenge in that? Anyway, he won’t look.”

“You don’t think?” 

“Three to one.” 

“Not very good odds.” 

“You wouldn’t have given it to him if you didn’t think the same.” He slipped his arms around her waist, hands resting on her belly. “No, I’m sure I can piece it together. With… sufficient study.” 

“Study away.” She leaned back against him. 

“Mm.” Pressing his face against the warm hollow of her neck, he inhaled. “Compelling.” 

Chuckling, she twisted in his embrace to loop her arms around his neck. “Now you’re attracted to me. I should have known.” 

“Increased sexual attraction upon the acquisition of new knowledge is not uncommon,” Sherlock murmured, lowering his head. His hands curled on her hips, his lips soft and precise as they met hers. 

“Especially when one… has proven oneself…extraordinary,” Sherlock breathed between kisses. “Unexpected. It’s marvelous.” 

Her fingers curled in the back of his crisp shirt, pulling it out of the waistband of his trousers. “John disagrees,” she murmured, raking her nails down his back. Sherlock shivered and bit the tender skin under her jaw. 

“John’s an idiot,” Sherlock mumbled against her neck.

Mary gave a strangled laugh, tipping her head back to let him suck at the pulse in the hollow of her throat. Sliding her hands down his back, she gripped his arse and pulled his hips against hers. Against her stomach, his prick twitched and thickened.

Pulling back, she licked her lips and blinked her eyes open. “Ever had sex with a woman?” 

Sherlock shook his head. “Problem?” 

“None at all.” Yanking her blouse over her head, she reached for the buttons of his shirt. Sherlock bent his head to catch her mouth again, hands rising to cup her breasts tentatively. She hummed, smiling against his lips, and arched her back.

His hands slid down to cover the barely-there bump on her belly, and he made a soft noise. Tangling her fingers in his hair, she teased his mouth open, biting at his bottom lip. His arms slipped around her waist, supporting her as they swayed unsteadily, her on her tiptoes, head tipped back to reach his mouth. “Bedroom,” she whispered. 

As they stumbled through the kitchen, Mary’s hip hit the corner of the table, and the beakers and jars on it rattled. Sherlock reached out to steady a rack of vials. “Mind the O-negative.”

“I though Molly had convinced you to stop stealing to O-neg.” 

“I didn’t steal it.” Sherlock looked vaguely affronted. “It’s my own type. I drew it myself.” 

“Of course you did.” She pressed a kiss against his chin. 

In Sherlock’s room, Mary slipped out of her skirt and reached for the button on his trousers. His erection distended the front of his briefs, a damp stain on the fabric at the tip. He huffed out a breath as she ran her fingers over it, trousers sliding into a heap on the floor. Slipping her fingers under the elastic of his briefs, she pulled them down his slender hips. 

Sherlock trailed his hands down over her ribs, thumbs brushing her nipples and skimming over the curve of her stomach. “Condom?” 

“Don’t bother. I know you’re clean.” Dropping her knickers on the floor, she pushed at his shoulders. 

Pitching back on the bed, Sherlock reached out to grip her hips, pulling her with him. “What would John say?”

“John,” she purred, straddling his lap, “Would be so turned on, it wouldn’t occur to him to object. You think John hasn’t thought about this? The two of us together? This is the sort of thing he jerks off thinking about.” Sherlock’s hips jolted up. “I know. Mm.” Reaching down to hold his prick, Mary teased the head against her clit, and then slid him, slick and easy, inside. Sherlock huffed a breath, fingers tightening on her hips. With a little wriggle, she settled on his lap, forehead resting against his. “Ahh.” 

They rocked together, silent except for small sounds of pleasure and the rush of their breath. One of Sherlock’s hands drifted to rest on her stomach. Mary had her eyes closed, Sherlock’s were slitted open, watching the minute expressions pass across her face. 

Blinking her eyes open, she met his gaze and grinned. “What do you think? Different?”

“Different,” Sherlock agreed, breath a little short. “I see the appeal. I suppose the procreative inclinations of an entire species can’t be entirely without merit.” 

“Were you curious?” Pushing him back to lie flat on the bed, she rolled her hips deliberately, and he gasped.

“Not until John.”

“John made you curious about sex with women?” 

“Sex with- ah, with you.” He met her rhythm, bucking up against her. 

“Oh I see. Curious about what- held his attention,” she panted. “Now you know.” 

“I- ah- I do now.” His cheeks were flushed, eyes bright and glassy, mouth bitten wet and red, tongue flickering out to dampen his lips. 

“And is it… sufficiently, ah… compelling?” The bedsprings creaked. 

“Ex- exceptionally compelling,” he gasped. 

“Oh god, Sherlock.” Bracing herself on his shoulder, Mary slipped a hand down between their bodies, working her finger furiously on her clit, and rolling her hips hard. “I’m gonna- I’m gonna come.” Trembling, she clutched at his arms. “Oh, oh, oh.” 

Sherlock groaned as she panted and shook in his lap, fingers spasming on her arms. 

“Ohhh,” she sighed, relaxing against him and circling her hips slowly. Sherlock whined. She threaded her fingers through his hair. “Are you going to come for me, Sherlock? You’re close, aren’t you?” she whispered. “Ready to burst. Do you want to come inside me? Fill me up, like John does?” 

Sherlock’s whole body tensed, eyes falling closed with a whimper as his hips jolted shallowly. He panted against her neck, shivering. 

Rolling off him, Mary curled up against his chest, their skin slightly damp with sweat. Lying in the stillness that followed, she sighed and tucked her head under his chin. “You still have questions.” 

“Yes.” His fingers slid absently through her hair. “In the office, you threatened to shoot me. If you are as good as I think you are, you are too professional to make empty threats. So when you said it, you meant it. You were prepared to shoot me, then I took the step. In that split second you changed your mind and shot Magnussen instead. Why?”

Mary bit her lip, and tipped her head back to look at him. “Isn’t it obvious?” 

Sherlock huffed. “Sentiment.” 

She hummed, and curled closer to him. In the kitchen, the refrigerator hummed, and traffic rumbled in the street outside. A dog barked. Sherlock was drowsing when Mary broke the silence. “You know, I half expected you to figure it out the moment you turned up at the restaurant. But all you could see was John. 

Not opening his eyes, Sherlock hummed ascent. “Mmm. We both have that weakness don’t we?”

She smiled, and turned her face into the damp hollow of his neck. “We do.”’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next two weeks of my life are absolutely bonkers. I expect I won't get much writing done. Expect the next installment toward the end of July.   
> Thanks so much as always to the lovely Lisa, and to everyone who left comments - your support and feedback are what make this worthwhile. <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, I didn't intend for this one to take so long, whoops. Enjoy! I suppose I should warn for things taking a turn for the even-less-fluffy (details in end note).

Sunlight was streaming through the window of Sherlock’s room when the door to the flat slammed open. Mary groaned. 

“Bowl beside the bed.” Sherlock, propped against the headboard with his laptop on his knees, didn’t look around. 

Mary breathed deeply through her nose. “I think I’m ok.” 

“Hello?” John called from the front room. “Anybody here? Or have you both gone kill someone with out me?” 

Sherlock raised his voice. “Don’t be absurd, John. Mary’s retired, and I hardly ever kill people.” 

“Retired, is that what you call it? How’s the pension for being a hired spy and killer?” John halted in the bedroom doorway. “Oh, look at you two. Isn’t this cozy. I can tell how much you missed me.” 

“I see four hours of sleep on Lestrade’s couch has not improved your temper.” Sherlock threw off the sheet and stood. 

John’s eyes flew over his naked body. “Really? Did you really, the two of you?” 

Sherlock frowned. “While we had not explicitly discussed whether it was permissible for Mary and myself to be intimate, my understanding was that-“ 

John made a slashing motion with one hand, cutting Sherlock off. “It’s not- I don’t- It’s not about that. It’ just - Christ, your timing.” He paced to the wardrobe and back. “Weren’t there more pressing things to occupy your enormous brain? Like, I dunno, some unimportant missing camera footage?”

Sherlock scowled. “Unlike some, sexual stimulation does not in fact rob me of all intellect. I have been contemplating the matter since the small hours of the morning. I believe I can be in touch with a member of Magnussen’s staff by nightfall, and tomorrow I will be able to travel to Appledor.” 

“Tomorrow, is that soon enough?” 

“If you think you can be quicker, I invite you to try,” Sherlock sniped. 

“It was all over the papers this morning. Businessman’s body found, killer unknown.” 

“Did Greg say anything?” Mary asked. She was leaning back against the headboard, eyes almost closed, hands folded over her stomach. 

“Just asked if I had heard, when he saw the news this morning. I said I hadn’t- I’d been crashed out on his couch, when would I have found out? He wasn’t the DI assigned to the case, didn’t have any details. It didn’t sound like they’d found the camera footage.”

“If they had found the footage, the police would already be here,” Sherlock said briskly, pulling open the wardrobe and holding up a lavender shirt. 

Mary rubbed a hand over her eyes. “Janine ok?” she asked faintly.

“The paper didn’t say. Thoughtful of you to ask though, after you walloped her over the head.” 

“Snide remarks now, really John?” Sherlock turned, buttoning up his shirt. “You were the one who reminded us there are more pressing issues at hand.” 

John’s jaw tightened. “Excuse me for still being a little hung up on the whole assassin-spy thing.”

“Of course you would be,” Sherlock sighed, pulling on a pair of perfectly pressed trousers. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” John’s voice rose. “You don’t get it do you? You honestly don’t care. You think I should just get over the fact that I’m married to a woman I hardly know, who is wanted by some of the world’s powerful governments, and lied to me from the day we met! You think all that’s ok, don’t you, because she’s clever enough to interest you! Christ, I don’t know why I’m surprised. Of course you wouldn’t understand- you think it’s perfectly ok to lie to people you love.” 

“John, I am aware of your continual resentment-” Sherlock began, but Mary pushed herself upright and interrupted. 

“No, John, I don’t think you understand either- how much I - we- love you, what we would do to protect you.” Sheets sliding down her bare thighs she knelt up on the bed. “Lying is the least of it- you don’t think we-” She broke off, face going grey, and bolted for the bathroom. Sherlock made a face as if to say, _now look what you’ve done, and swept after her_ , taking her dressing gown off the hook behind the door. The hot breath of anger rushed out of John as he heard Mary retching, and his shoulders sagged. Slowly he followed Sherlock into the bathroom. 

Sherlock was tucking the dressing gown gently around Mary’s shoulders, and she clutched at the fabric, shivering. Filling a glass at the tap, John crouched beside her, rubbing her back. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he mumbled. 

She breathed out a tired laugh. 

Hovering in the doorway, Sherlock said, “John, you ought not to skip your shift at the clinic. In the unlikely event of a murder investigation, best to keep to your routine.” 

John huffed out a breath. “How unlikely is this hypothetical investigation?” 

“More unlikely the sooner I can get into Appledor. I’ve already been in contact with people. I am meeting someone this afternoon. Mary, will you be alright on your own?”

She waved a hand vaguely. “If the police come, being head down in the toilet is as good a defense as any.” 

“Right. John, you’re going to be late.” 

John swore, dropped a kiss on top of Mary’s head, and hurried out. She heard him in the bedroom, getting his scrubs out of the dresser, and then his footsteps in the hall. Sherlock followed him into the kitchen and she could hear them talking quietly, and then the sound of the door and John stumping down the stairs. Rustles and clinks sounded as Sherlock moved around the kitchen. 

Her stomach clenched, empty and painful, and she choked up sour spit. Groaning, she closed her eyes.

A hand lighted delicately on her head. Sherlock’s brow was furrowed as he looked down at her. “I’m meeting a contact who I hope can get me in touch with some of Magnussen’s household staff. I won’t be gone long, but are you sure you…” 

“I’m alright, Sherlock,” she sighed. “I’ll just sit here for a bit.” 

He cleared his throat. “Is there anything…” 

“Find the tapes. Find whoever has that bloody video. That’s the best thing you can do for my peace of mind.” 

After a moment, his hand withdrew, and Mary heard his footsteps through the kitchen. Another dry heave rippled through her, and she coughed and spat thin bile. Leaning her her forehead against the cool porcelain of the tank, she sighed and closed her eyes. The door to the landing closed and she faintly heard Sherlock’s steps descending the stairs. 

She sat until her knees began to ache, bare on the cold tile, listening to the gurgling of the pipes, Mrs Hudson bustling downstairs, the rumble and rush of the city outside. Her eyes drifted shut, breath slowing. She had gotten barely four hours of sleep. 

Out in the hall there was a creak, distinct from the slow groaning of the old house. She slitted her eyes open. A faint shadow from the hall light fell across the tiles. Mary’s fingers closed around the handle of the toilet scrubber. 

“My, my, Mary.” It was a male voice, soft and rounded by an Irish accent. “You don’t look well at all. Ah-ah, don’t move.” There was a metallic click.   
~

It took Sherlock longer than he had expected to get back to the flat. His contact had been delayed, and then had insisted on changing locations at the last minute, in a fit of chronic paranoia. It had taken Sherlock almost two hours to get across town to their rendezvous, and then another forty minutes to weasel and bargain out of him the name of a woman in Magnussen’s employ. By the time he returned to Baker Street, John’s five hour shift was over. They ran into each other on the sidewalk, Sherlock hopping out of a cab, John with his coat slung over his shoulder, slightly sweaty after his walk from the tube. The late summer heat was sticky and oppressive. 

Inside the hall was cool, dim and silent. There was no sound of Mrs. Hudson, or Mary upstairs. Nothing so odd about that, really. It was late enough in the afternoon that Mary was likely feeling well. Probably she had gone out for some fresh air. 

The door at the top of the stairs was ajar. Mary’s red coat on a hook by the door. Of course there was no reason for her to take it on such a hot day. 

“Mary?” John called. “Probably went to the library. She finished that book she was reading yesterday.” 

Sherlock said nothing, eyes scanning the room. Nothing out of place. Nothing at all. The kitchen and sitting room were exactly as he had last seen them that morning. Either Mary had left directly after he did, without even making herself tea or toast, or else she had been meticulously careful to leave no trace of her day’s activities. A flare of doubt ran through him. Surely not- she had been vomiting and exhausted. But her capacity for deception had proved before to be a match for his intellect. He could not entirely rule out the possibility. 

He poked his head into the bathroom. The scrub brush for cleaning the toilet had been knocked over. The overhead light was on. Sherlock stared into the mirror, at his own pale face, as if it could tell him what it had seen. 

“Sherlock.” John’s voice was shaking. The tone made Sherlock turn immediately. 

John was standing at the kitchen table, holding a slip of paper. Wordlessly, he handed it to Sherlock. It fluttered as his fingers trembled. 

The words were in a loopy scrawl, left-handed Sherlock noted dimly through the pounding of his pulse. 

_Mary had a little lamb, whose fleece was white as snow._   
_Everywhere that Mary went, that lamb was sure to go._   
_Where has Mary gone?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for kidnapping of pregnant ladies, and misuse of nursery rhymes. 
> 
> What do you all think about the canon-divergence so far? Where do you think I'm going? What do you want to see? What have I done well, what could be better? I love hearing from you all so much, drop me a comment! :) 
> 
> Hope to have the next installment done for you in a couple of weeks. Check back around the 16th.


	5. Chapter 5

The note had been printed on the back of a shopping list, with a blue pen. Then pen was lying on the table- no concern for fingerprints. But then, he wasn’t trying to hide was he? No, he wanted Sherlock’s attention, same as ever, that much was clear - but _how…?_

He strode down the hall and poked his head into the bedroom. Here things had been moved. Mary’s dressing gown was thrown across the foot of the bed, the wardrobe door stood slightly ajar (Sherlock knew that he had left it wide open), and a pair of Mary’s shoes were missing. No sign of a struggle here- hardly any in the bathroom. Another shiver of doubt ran through him- if this had been a crime scene with a victim he didn’t know, he would have deduced that she had left willingly. Her purse had still been in the kitchen though, where she had left it, along with her black cat-burglar bag when they arrived home last night. Not enough facts. 

Back in the kitchen John was clutching the edge of the table, head down, body shaking. 

“Stop panicking,” Sherlock snapped. “He hasn’t hurt her.” 

“He? You know who it is?” 

“Who do you think?”

“Not-”

“Yes.” 

“But he’s _dead_. Dead, Sherlock. It’s impossible.” 

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t know either but it’s either him, or an imitator who is a skilled forger. Either way we have insight into their methods. He won’t have hurt her yet.” 

“Yet?” John’s voice shook. 

“Yes, that’s what I said,” Sherlock repeated distractedly. He began to pace. “We can assume this is a stroke of revenge at me for work I did dismantling his organization. But why now? It’s been months. And why Mary instead of you? Clearly he knows that to influence me, you are-” Sherlock broke off. “In any case, we cannot discount the timing.” 

“I don’t. Fucking. Care why he did it or why now, I want to know where she is and how to get her back!” John shouted. 

“John, motives are important. They can reveal methods and probabilities…”

“My bloody wife’s been kidnapped- I’m not letting you turn this into another goddamned _game_!” 

“John, I wouldn’t- I’d never-“

“I’m supposed to believe that, am I? After what happened last time? You never cared about the body count, that was just bloody scorekeeping,” he spat. 

“I do care, John,” Sherlock snapped, fast and low. “I did it all to save the people I - care about.”

“I don’t care why you did it! You jumped, and I lived two bloody years thinking I had lost the person I loved most and then you come waltzing back and you think everything’s fine but _it’s not_!” His voice broke. “The last _game_ you played so bloody careless with your own life, how do I know you wouldn’t gamble with Mary’s this time? For the thrill?” 

“John, that was completely different-”

“Was it? Was it? Is there anything that’s not a bloody game to you? You, me, Mary? My child? Our child, Sherlock? Hell, maybe Mary would understand. Maybe the three of you are loving this, having a jolly time playing criminals, laughing at poor, worried John. Well I’m damn well not going to sit back and let you play a second round of your sick game with Moriarty while she’s in danger! I’m going to the police. Give me that note.” He snatched the slip of paper from Sherlock’s hands and stomped to the door. It slammed behind him, rattling the flasks and vials on the table. 

Sherlock breathed out, forcing himself to master his pounding heart and sweating palms. Adrenaline was not useful right now. He needed clarity. There were so few clues. So little to go on. There had to be something - _had to be_. He wouldn’t let John down again. Pacing through the flat he catalogued the evidence again. Jacket on the hook by the door. Pen on the kitchen table- probably with prints but it didn’t matter; he knew who it was. Mary’s purse on a chair. Toilet brush knocked over in the bathroom, but water glass on the counter where he’d left it. In the bedroom, shoes missing, closet closed, dressing gown abandoned. And- oh. _Oh._

Sherlock had been half asleep already when she had kissed him and rolled out of his embrace, murmured something about texting Janine. “Just to check on her.” She’d brought the phone back to bed, blue glow lighting the room, and left it on the bedside table when she curled against him again. 

The phone was gone.  
~

Mary was blindfolded but not bound for the car ride. She spent most of the drive breathing deeply to calm her stomach, but even if she hadn’t been ill she would have sat quietly just the same. The man beside her was too dangerous for rash action. 

It was a long ride. Eventually the car came to a halt. Hands under her elbows helped her out, and gravel crunched underfoot. A cheerful, Irish voice said beside her, “Four steps up.” There was the creak of a door as she carefully climbed the steps, and then the air changed- cool, stagnant, smelling of mold and old wood and decay. “The floorboards are a bit rotted, watch your step. Oh whoops, you can’t. Don’t mind, we’ve got you. More stairs here.” Lots more stairs. They climbed slowly, her navigating blind, with the direction of the meaty hands on her arms, the man’s voice providing commentary, and occasional encouragement. “Almost there, you’re doing well! Just at the end of the hall. Ah, here we are. Thank you, gentlemen, that will be all.” 

The hands released her. There was the click of the door, and then a touch at the back of her head, pulling at the knot of the blindfold. 

She blinked and scanned her surroundings in a split second. A small room, narrow window high up in one wall. Door behind her. Stone walls, grimy and soot stained. Metal frame bed under the window, rusted and old. New mattress, clean sheets. 

“Odd place, isn’t it? It was an infirmary between the wars, and had a bomb shelter added during the Blitz. Became a correctional boarding school for a few years, until it was shut down in the sixties. There was a fire that destroyed part of the east wing; it got condemned, and an associate of mine acquired it. I like it- it’s got character.” 

The man was short, impeccably dressed in a black suit, good looking, although his face was sharp. Pale skin and dark hair combed flat to match the Irish accent. When he smiled, it was wrong around the edges. She’d seen that smile before- on politicians who didn’t care who knew they were lying, and on soldiers, who had forgotten what smiling was supposed to feel like. 

“I must say it’s a privilege to meet the remarkable Mary Morstan. Or Mary Watson, I suppose! The woman who stole Sherlock’s pet, and orchestrated their reconciliation, oh yes, I’ve been very interested in your successes thus far, Mrs. Watson. And with a little one on the way now too, how exciting!” His eyes dropped to her stomach. “Hello little lamb!” 

Mary took a step away, and her back hit the door. 

“But I haven’t introduced myself, how terribly rude of me. Jim Moriarty, a pleasure to meet you.” 

Glaring, she covered her belly with both hands. “I know who you are.” 

“Oh good! Does Sherlock talk about me? I do hope so. What does he say?” Mary didn’t respond, and Jim pouted. “Oh, don’t be like that. I wouldn’t want to bring in one of my specialists when we’re just making small talk!” Her eyes flickered and he grinned. “Oh, I suppose you know all about the kind of specialists I hire. I bet you have methods of your own. Maybe I could learn from you! We could play a game. Do you like games, Mary?” He tilted his head, peering into her eyes. “I hope you do. All mothers should like playing games. It’s so important to the little ones.”


	6. Chapter 6

John’s shoes squeaked on industrial linoleum as he paced. The harsh fluorescents at the Yard made his temples throb. 

“John, you should eat something.” Greg looked tired. “We’ve got our best men on it.” 

Biting back an acerbic comment about their best men that would be more suited to Sherlock than himself, John forced himself to halt in front of Greg’s desk. “I know. I just…” He breathed out heavily. “I hate this.” 

Greg shook his head helplessly. “I’m sorry, mate. Still no word from Sherlock?”

“Not since this morning.” John scrubbed a hand over his eyes. “Jesus. I can’t stop thinking… there were things I needed to say to Mary. And I fought with Sherlock- what if he goes rushing in on his own and gets himself hurt-“ He broke off, breath hitching. 

A young officer entered with a stack of papers and laid them on the desk.

Picking up the sheet on top, a frown creased Greg’s brow. “DNA analysis on the note is back from the lab. But that can’t be right…” 

John’s head jerked up. “What is it?” His phone chimed. Heart pounding, John pulled it out. 

1521 Heathdale Road, Epsom  
Come at once  
Bring your gun  
SH  
~

Moriarty sat down on the mattress with a bounce. “The game is what it’s all about, really. And you are the key, Mary, the key to the new game.” He leaned back, kicking his feet up on the clean sheets. “November of 2008. What a fantastic time. So funny! The most important people in the world all in a panic. Well, you would know. You were there.” 

Mary breathed out. “That’s what this is about.”

“You did such a good job of hiding your trail. But not good enough.” He wagged a finger at her. 

Letting her shoulders relax and her face fall into the cool impassivity she had often used in her previous life. “How long have you known?”

“Who you are? Oh, a little while. Longer than your pet genius, certainly. I was waiting for the right leverage and it fell right into my hands. Rather a boring video, really, but the timestamp makes it oh-so interesting.”

“Yes, you said.” Mary folded her arms. “And I came quietly, and here we are. And this is the part where we pretend to bargain.”

“Mmm, yes. That’s a fun game, playing pretend. Little ones like that, don’t they? You could give me information that you pretend is accurate, and I could pretend I’m not going to release the video to the police.” 

“How ‘bout we start by you telling me what you already know.” 

“Mary, Mary, quite contrary. Alright. I’ll play.” He drummed his fingers on the corroded metal frame of the bed, making the pipes ring hollowly. “In December of 2008, a meeting was held in Tehran between some people with high stakes in the oil industry, including some whose dealings are not… above board. It was a meeting that made some people I knew very nervous. The meeting went wrong- the building burned. Twelve bodies were found, thirteen people disappeared. Foul play was obvious, although none of my contacts were sure who the rogue agent was playing for. That much I was aware of at the time. Oil is a fun game, but not really where my interests lie. And there were so many more interesting things to do with the crisis! So many panicking people, so many desperate businessmen.” He beamed like a child. 

“I’m afraid to say I didn’t pay much attention to what Johnny-boy did while Sherlock was gone. I hope you aren’t offended. It was just so fun to watch Sherlock take down some of the disposable parts of my network! But then he got back to London, and John’s engaged- the heartbreak! I was quite looking forward to picking up the pieces after John had left him for good.” He shook his head. “I had a new game planned for Sherlock. A cure for heartbreak, you might say. But then you came along and suddenly the name of the game is Mary Morstan. Who am I to pass up a perfectly good game when it falls practically into my lap? And, well,” he drawled, accent heavy, “I could never resist a woman with a past.” 

“I’m flattered,” Mary said dryly. 

Folding his hands behind his head, he kicked one foot across the scuffed wood floor. “As soon as I started investigating you, it was obvious that Magnussen was sniffing around your history as well. Magnussen was brilliant, but not really very bright when you get right down to it. He played you all wrong. I don’t think he really believed that women could be dangerous.” Moriarty wrinkled his nose. “You did the world a favor, killing him. Don’t worry. I know how dangerous you are.” 

“Do you?” 

He grinned. “Nobody who knows what you know stays hidden without corpses behind them. Magussen wasn’t the first.”

“But you like dangerous.” 

Holding her gaze he rolled the words on his tongue. “I love dangerous. Miss Mary. Or should I say, Amelia.” 

“Yes, yes, you know my name. There are a lot of people who know my name.” 

“Ah, but none of them know to connect Amelia Reid-Ackerman with Mary Morstan. You could, I suppose, drop everything and disappear again. But you have a life you don’t want to leave now.” 

She shrugged. “I had a life I didn’t want to leave before.” 

“Mary, Mary.” He clucked his tongue. “You’re having a baby.” 

“You think I forgot?” she snapped. 

“Just think what it would do to poor Johnny boy. Would you take his little one away from him? It would break him, you know. Worse than I could ever do.”

Mary took a deep breath. “So you have the tapes. If you give them to the police, we’ll be arrested. Seems like letting other people have all the fun. “

He shrugged. “Heavy handed, I’ll admit. But that’s not the game, that’s just the leverage. This is the game. What are you willing to tell me, to protect your family? We don’t want little lamb born with both his daddies in jail.” Sitting forward on the edge of the bed, he clasped his hands between his knees. “Tell me about Tehran, Mary.” 

“And have you release the tapes anyway when I’m done? I don’t think so.” 

Jim blew a raspberry out through his lips. “That’s no fun! You have to pretend!” 

“I’m not like Sherlock. I don’t play games for games’ sake. The men in that meeting - I could have taken what I heard and sold it to the highest bidder. I could have blackmailed them with it, run them around in circles. I didn’t. I just killed them. You know what they were doing, don’t you? That’s why you’re so interested. They were trying to take over the oil industry. Extraction, refinement, distribution. You’d be surprised how few people hold power over the world’s most contested resource. And at that table they had enough money and knowledge and violence between them to do it, or at least make a devastating attempt. So I killed them. They weren’t important, just negotiators for more powerful people. But it stopped the deal in its tracks. The alliance was fragile enough, and it helped that none of the organizers would admit that the rogue agent had been theirs.” 

Moriarty leaned forward. “And now you’re the only person who has all the pieces. Oh dear. How dangerous.” He grinned. “Let’s play, Mary.” 

“What if I don’t play?” 

He huffed out a breath and rolled his eyes. “Then my specialists get to have all the fun. Boring! Much better to do it my way.” 

“You don’t have any stakes in the game. How is that interesting?” 

“No stakes? You, Sherlock, the oil industry, those don’t count?” 

She waved a hand. “You’ve staked nothing you might be in danger of losing. Only things to gain.” 

“Ah-ah. I see. What’s the ante?”

“Your leverage.” 

He tipped his head, and laughed. “The video footage? Oh Mary, that’s a fool’s move. It goes like this- I promise to destroy the footage, and then I break my promise.” Making a face, Moriarty shrugged. “Boring.”

“I agree.” Mary kicked the frame of the bed, making it rattle under him. “Don’t you know how to play games against yourself? Make the stakes worthwhile.” 

Leaning forward, he licked his lips. “I’m listening.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life has been so crazy, I'm super glad to be finished with this. Whoooo boy! Thank you so much for all your amazing feedback. I couldn't do it without all of you. Expect the next chapter around the 12th of September.  
> Let me know what you want to see in coming chapters- I haven't totally solidified my outline yet.

**Author's Note:**

> ETA Sept 19th:  
> Y'all, real life has gotten crazy this month with traveling and uni starting again, and terrible writer's block and everything is a little overwhelming. I'm putting this fic on hiatus until November 1, but I promise I am not abandoning it. I am a fic-reader myself and there is nothing that matches the unique pain of an abandoned WIP.  
> Thank you all so much for your support and encouragement thus far.


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